Attributed to the Harrow Painter
by Nick Twemlow
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Pub Date 01 Nov 2017 | Archive Date 31 Oct 2017
University of Iowa Press | Kuhl House Poets
Description
Advance Praise
“Meandering around the edges of the beginning of someone’s mid-life, Attributed to the Harrow Painter dips back to lost teenage friends, traumas, accommodations, pleasures and losses and forward as the father of a young child, to the inevitable future. There’s the New York diaspora, and there are the blue jays
and backyards of skull-fuck cold Kansas. Where are you most alive? Like Dana Ward and Ariana Reines, Nick Twemlow writes brainy poetry that’s as dispersed as real life without losing heart. I found the book very moving, and will read it again.”—Chris Kraus, author, I Love Dick and Summer of Hate
Available Editions
EDITION | Paperback |
ISBN | 9781609385415 |
PRICE | $18.00 (USD) |
PAGES | 98 |
Links
Featured Reviews
&don't worry so much
About whether they think
You're a boy or a girl.
You have much
To look forward to
In the matrix
Of gods and trends.
I have always thought preference for poetry is very strictly individual, this is true for all genres of literature, of course- it's just that to me poetry gives more freedom for interpretation of forms and compositions.
Is poetry the most elevated type of writing, or it's just "documenting " one's own oblivion; is the poet like the Harrow painter- "minor " , poorly equipped, just more than ordinarily competent, or actually a genius- honestly- I don't know... and that's what I like about verses.
Reading it doesn't always depend on your mood, or anything- sometimes a sentence just hits you and well...that's it.
With all that being said, and since each poem reading is a personal experience, I am not going to write an analysis about Nick Twemlow's poems. I'll say I liked the author's style, as I am very fond of stream of consciousness- this is my type of poetry and will share with you my favorite parts of the book :
This feeling we all
Know each other
From some past life
Spent holding hands
Walking over the precipice Into the volcanic bowels
Of Hell, this otherness, Fixed into a buried
Set of neurons native To homo sapiens sapiens, Has
surfaced surfaced With a fury,
Furious with spouts
Of pepper spray
Spraying the frozen air
Waiting for history's Next victim to occupy, Occupies
the space
In front of it.
I imagine
All my obsessions
Abstracting into a color, Sometimes
A version of blue,
Sometimes
I can't work it out,
I have such
An impoverished
Color palette
To work with, so I get
Caught up
In this, my inability to see Color in any interesting
way,&then
The whole thing falls
Apart& I am back
In here, where
The walls are pink
&the pixels
Laugh like dropised clowns.
As I smoked
&stared out between The slashes of frost
On the window,
Not thinking
So much as enduring This adolescence
Became a lesson
In how to wait
For nothing to happen.
So you
Tell me
How your
Radical formalism
Saves lives
Exactly?